


manipulation

by hotaryu, Hugabug



Series: bayaniserye drabble challenge [8]
Category: Heneral Luna (2015)
Genre: M/M, Mafia AU, Manipulation, Miong is the facade with the funny Hong Kong accent, Organized Crime, Pillow Talk, Pole is real mafia boss, Sexual Content, and nikki, i honestly blame m/on for all of this, or something like it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 14:47:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7319437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotaryu/pseuds/hotaryu, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hugabug/pseuds/Hugabug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pole thinks. It's a habit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	manipulation

**Author's Note:**

> this au was cooked up by [hotaryu](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hotaryu) and i during my stay in hk
> 
> honestly? i blame mon confiado’s stupid mr lau accent. somebody pls tell him to stop playing with my emotions, i have a very weak heart. ty.

It’s a habit, Pole thinks, as they lay sated in bed, Miong’s head on his stomach, arms around each other as they finally catch their breath, sweat and saliva and cum cooling on their heated skin. Outside their large bedroom window, lights twinkle below, yellow and sharp white, a sea of artificial stars that pepper the streets of their domain.

Tonight, they rule. Tomorrow, Miong goes out, in his place, to fight.

Pole thinks again– it’s a habit. Miong stirs, head turning just so to bury his nose in the soft flesh of Pole’s belly, before settling one more, half-asleep but alert. There’s a scar on his right shoulder and another raised incision on his hip. There are more on his chest, Pole knows this, can name the place of each one, and he relays in his mind how exactly his husband got them. Majority of them are flesh wounds, bits of shrapnel that went astray, a knife that got lucky. None of them are truly fatal, most of them are marks.

But there is one. Pole caresses it as he thinks. Just on the plane of Miong’s back, a bullet wound like a star burst of ruined skin. 9 mm. The shooter was green, shaking and young, and the bullet wasn’t truly meant for him, but it was a lucky shot, and it nearly cost Miong his life.

“You’re thinking again.” Miong whispers, lifting his head to look Pole in the eye.

Pole looks back. “It’s a habit.”

“It’s something people are just suppose to do.” Miong chuckles, rolling on to his back and pushing away Pole’s wondering hand. He stretches, relieves the kinks in his spine, and Pole watches him arch off the bed, dark nipples still pert despite his soft member. “But you’re _thinking_ – you’re moving chess pieces. You have to stop.”

Pole smirks, reaches out and runs the blunt nail of his fore finger down his husband’s inner arm. Traces black twists and turns of a tattoo pierced into skin to hide white, ugly raised lines, scars from a life on the battle field.

Miong shivers, and Pole’s smirk grows bigger.

“You’re still a good fuck.” he says, groaning a bit to make his point, shifting as much as his crippled legs could allow to let the rest of Miong’s seed leak from his used ass. The musky, left over smell of their slow coupling still lingered in the room, and Pole wants Miong to revel in it as he lets his fingers wonder, tracing ink and then bruises, teeth marks of black and blue.

Miong laughs. Pushes Pole’s hand away, weakly.

“You,” he says, rolling on to his side, resting his head on his palm to properly look out toward their kingdom, the lights dancing on his handsome face. “You’re _thinking_.”

Pole stares at him, and rests a thin hand on the sharp cut of his jaw. “I am, yes.”

“Stop it.” Miong says, tearing his eyes away from their window and smiling down at Pole, eyes warm and soft and understanding. “You don’t need to do that with me.”

Pole’s smirk falls, and now he’s frowning. His hand wanders down, to the thin line of white that wonders from the top part of his left shoulder and ends just below his left nipple. A dinner knife, handled by a rather incensed associate.

“I don’t want you to go tomorrow.” he says, keeping his hand over Miong’s heart. Feeling it beat against his thin fingers. “Let the del Pilar boy do it. Or Buencamio. Not you. I can’t let you go.”

At that, Miong frowns as well, shaking his head. “Otis asked for me.”

“Otis is a _balimbing_.” Pole hisses, clenching his hands into fists, eyes flashing in malice. “We don’t need him.”

“Except we _do_.” Miong sighs, patient. “He’s the only one that can control MacArthur and you know it.”

“MacArthur is a loose canon that Enriquez can get rid of.”

“Killing him will trigger Luna.”

“Fuck Luna.”

“Stop.”

Pole stops. Does as he is commanded. Only Miong can do that, speak a word and make him still. Any other person would have been shot dead, numerous times, but not Miong.

He could never harm Miong.

They lie there, together in the dark, and Pole listens to his husband breath. Feels the heart beating just beneath his fist.

He uncurls his fingers, and cradles Miong’s jaw once more.

“You’re important to me.” Pole says, quiet. A whisper of an apology and a plea.

Miong smiles. The action pulls on the stretch of grafted skin just below his right temple. Pole forces himself not to stare.

“Other people say ‘I love you’.” he chuckles.

They are not other people.

“Use that stupid accent of yours, I don’t care.” Pole says, stroking his husband’s hair, the cartilage of his ear. “There will be coms, I’ll be directly monitoring. I will be there with you.”

“As always.” Miong nods, taking his hand and bring his fingers to his lips, kissing each tip, tender and sweet.

Outside, the dark of the night persists and the lights of their kingdom shine.

“Stay safe.” Pole whispers.

Miong nods, settles into Pole’s side. “I’m always safe.”

_No you’re not._

49 scars. Pole thinks, a habit. One on his right ankle that time Bonifacio tortured him in his holding cell. Two on his thigh, that time Luna’s officers got lucky. Seven welts on his calves, from that time in Mindanao–

Tomorrow, they will emerge, the shadow queen and puppet king of one of Asia’s biggest organized crime rings.

But tonight, Pole prays, to whatever god that may be listening, that he gets to keep Miong for another day.

He drifts to sleep, hand over Miong’s scars. 

It’s a habit.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr ver.](http://en-sam-malas.tumblr.com/post/146557046695/manipulation)  
>  prompt instructions [here](http://en-sam-malas.tumblr.com/post/145790223815/bayaniserye-drabble-challenge)


End file.
